


Secondhand Closure

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Archive Warnings Are All Mentioned And Not in Heavy Detail But Just in Case, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Dean Getting Some Much Needed Closure, Episode: s09e07 Bad Boys, Gen, Grieving Dean, Heavy Angst, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Original Character Death(s), Past Character Death, Revelations, Self-Reflection, Trigger Warnings As Listed Above, With OC Not Sam Or Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:16:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: "But monsters kill you one way or another, I guess," he says, moving to turn onto his side."You didn't."Dean turns his head at Sam's voice. "What?""You didn't let yours kill you."





	Secondhand Closure

Obit. Casey Mahoney. Male. 38 years old. Survived by three ex-wives, a cabin, and the moss in the backyard, where he hung himself.

Of course, the latter isn't mentioned in the obit. Obituaries keep it brief and sweet, which is ironic, considering the way he died.

"Dean, this case..." Sam says over the loud purr of the Chevy as it accelerates down the abandoned road. That's all he needs to say for Dean to know what he’s trying to say. No, there's nothing supernatural about the case. But there definitely is something unnatural about it.

The smell of freshly-fertilized farmland still sticks to their FBI suits, amplified by the fresh, unaltered summer air blowing through the vents. On low, the radio plays a static lullaby—will be until they enter the city again. Dean hates sitting silence for his thoughts to compose their own earworm tunes, so he welcomes what little sound is present into his ears. Lets it try to be the only thing occupying his mind for the duration of the ride.

Dean puts the Chevy in park and shuts off the engine once they reach the local motel. He stares ahead at one of the rooms. A dimly lit porch lamp is the only thing slicing through the blanket of darkness, aside from the light from the half-parted windows. Dean can see a family, consisting of a mother, father, and child—a boy no older than six or seven. The boy is glued to his father, both of them fast sleep on the couch. The mother smiles on, eventually moves outside to talk with great enthusiasm to someone on her cell.

Dean feels compelled to turn the car back on so he can shine his blinders at her to get her attention. Instead, he tears his gaze to look at his brother. The wrinkles inscribed in his large forehead are more pronounced now with the faint light streaming through the windshield as he's looking at Dean. He doesn't say anything. Doesn’t need to, Sam reads Dean better than anything he digs up from research. Neither does Dean when he plucks the key from the ignition and reaches for the door handle.

Later that night, Dean rolls over on his side after many tosses and turns already, earning him a disapproving squeal from the mattress. The bed feels like he's narrowly dodging Baoding balls with every reposition. The sheets are scratchy, and the smell of cheap detergent clings to him. It's probably the best bedding situation he's had in a motel room in years.

Eventually though, he gives into his restless mind, flopping onto his back and opening his eyes.

Like a record with a nick in the grooves, his voice wobbles as he chokes out, "I knew."

Sam doesn't say anything, but Dean knows he's awake, so he keeps talking. "Casey was a kid I met at the boys' home. His dad was an ex-Marine like ours, but he was bad. Dad would raise a hand to us every now and then. Hell, I probably deserved it a couple times. But the things Casey told me..." His words taper off momentarily, or maybe it's his mind. Sometimes he can’t tell if he’s coming or going in conversation. Everything else is hard enough to hold onto as is. "He did things to him that made the bruises on my wrists when I first went in look like a blessing.

“And his mom, he told me she was the worst of them because she just left the room— _their_ room. Casey got in trouble with the law a lot, but he always got away with it. He deliberately got caught so he didn't have to be at home. Can you imagine?

"I told him what we did, the family business. That was the first time I saw his eyes light up, since I’d met him, anyway. As dysfunctional as we were, he said he wished he had a family like ours, a family that kicked ass and looked after each other—which is even harder to imagine considering we weren't exactly Obla Di Obla Da, but..."

He pauses, letting the walls take in as much as they can with the already chipping paint. It's so still in the room when he sniffs, it sounds like a vacuum cleaner passing over them. It's easier this way, not having to face Sam. He couldn't even face himself in the mirror when he first read the news. (Not like he could before that, anyway.)

"But monsters kill you one way or another, I guess," he says, moving to turn onto his side.

"You didn't."

Dean turns his head at Sam's voice. "What?"

"You didn't let yours kill you."

No, but he's had a few close encounters. He doesn't need to tell Sam that, though. He's been there every step of the way the same way someone should have been there for Casey.

"I'm surprisingly okay," he says instead, letting himself fall onto his back again. "I mean, I'm enraged when I probably don't even have the right to be, since I wasn't his blood family, but I'm okay. It's made me feel oddly more secure with our own family. Dad could be an asshole, but he'd sooner let Hell take him than let one of us kill ourselves."

"Yeah, look where that got him."

For the first time in a while, Dean grins—just a little. God, he still remembers the first time he made a deal for Sam at the crossroads. Not only was she a terrible kisser, but that demon tasted like fire-roasted ass. "No wonder he hated us," Dean remarks, letting his chest bounce as a laugh escapes him. He almost forgot what that felt like.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, coming down from his own laugh, repeating, "yeah."

Dean's smile starts to thin out. After another beat, he says, "Hey, Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Do you miss him?”

"Every day."

Dean nods, and before drifting into a pictureless sleep, replies, "Me too."


End file.
